


Merry & Coffee's Potpourri of Teen Wolf One Shots ♥

by merrythoughts, ReallyMissCoffee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 01:17:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18216242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReallyMissCoffee/pseuds/ReallyMissCoffee
Summary: Where we put smaller one shots! Check individual chapters for pairings/warnings/ratings etc.





	Merry & Coffee's Potpourri of Teen Wolf One Shots ♥

**Author's Note:**

> More to be added, ya know, when we write 'em...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still co-authored, but we're trying a different more normalized fic style for this one. Shrug... Hope it works out. ( ´ ∀ ` )
> 
>  **Warning(s):** None... except fluff for this one...

Stiles could go home after the pack meeting, but where's the fun in that? Scott is busy with Kira, and Stiles doesn't want this night to be over just yet. 

It's summer and it's gorgeous out, the sky all movie-esque with stars 'a twinklin' and Peter just so happens to have a killer skylight in his apartment that Stiles likes to look through. Peter also just so happens to have a rather comfortable faux fur rug underneath it that Stiles likes to claim as his own too. He'll get to his knees and ease himself back, arms behind his head and gaze upward. 

Rain or shine, night or day, Stiles enjoys observing the outside world while enjoying inside comforts. The alternative would be going _outside_ , and he's not nearly 'Derek-enough' for that, thanks. Nature is great when he can watch it, not when it rains on him. Or burns him. Or trips him. 'Clumsy' and 'nature' don't really get along well.

Now, does _Peter_ enjoy him stopping by and getting his nature fix by proxy? Well, probably not, but Peter allows it as long as Stiles tries to keep his verbalizations to a minimum (which usually doesn't happen, but whatever). 

A lot has changed since Peter had first grotesquely roared his way into their lives causing drama and whatnot, and while some of the pack definitely doesn't understand their weird almost-friendship, Stiles doesn't need them to.

They get along (more or less). Peter lets him hang out and sometimes they even talk and it… it just works for them. 

So he runs out after Peter who's headed to his stupid overpriced car with all the bells and whistles.

"Hey, hey, can I come over tonight?" Stiles asks once he stops and catches his breath. 

Peter glances up at Stiles from where he's stood beside the driver's door of his car. He lifts an eyebrow, because this isn't necessarily an uncommon occurrence, and despite how many times he's said 'yes', Stiles continues to insist on asking. For a moment, Peter considers denying him just to see what would happen, but in the end, he rolls one shoulder in a shrug.

"I suppose I don't have anything better to do. I'm positive that you don't, so if you must," he says on a sigh. He hits a button on his key fob and unlocks Stiles' door as well, but before Stiles can answer, he ducks into the car and closes the door.

Stiles scowls. There had always been a chance that Peter could say 'no,' but Stiles has an inkling that maybe, just maybe, Peter likes his company (actually, he's pretty sure that he's right). Stiles has never seen Peter with anyone else, not a girlfriend, not a boyfriend, not even friends… Peter's already the lone wolf of the pack, so maybe Peter would like a break from that - it makes sense to Stiles.

Of course, Peter doesn't just agree, he's gotta be snarky about it, but Peter wouldn't be Peter without the damnable drama queen statements and the like. Stiles rolls his eyes as the werewolf gets into the car and Stiles follows suit, climbing in and buckling up his seatbelt as Peter starts the car. 

They've done this before - Peter driving him to his apartment - and Peter will, with great protest, drive Stiles back to his Jeep in a few hours. 

Stiles has never slept over. Why would he? They're just friends… but every once in a while Stiles has wondered what it would be like if a few lines were crossed. 

Peter is good looking. Peter is available. Peter's not crazy anymore! (Peter has listened to him rant without judgment. Peter had woken him up from a nightmare when he'd drifted off during a pack meeting...)

But despite Stiles' thoughts as he gets in the car, the drive is relatively simple. He reaches out and fiddles with Peter's pre-set controls (earning him a sour look that doesn't deter Stiles in the least) and Stiles knows he's made it with this whole weird friendship-thing when Peter doesn't reach out and slap his hand. Peter had at the beginning, but Stiles hasn't had his hand slapped in a few months now. Progress!

Peter drives in relative silence. The radio is idle background noise as Stiles fiddles with the dials and messes up his presets, but he only has to pointedly clear his throat once when Stiles keeps waffling back and forth between music and talk shows for Stiles to get the message. Rolling his eyes, Peter drives with one hand on the wheel, and in next to no time, they've arrived at his apartment.

It's a simple thing as far as Peter's concerned, though Stiles seems to have an uncomfortable affinity for his skylight. Peter can't count how many times he's nearly tripped over Stiles, sprawled out across the rug. He'd stepped on him once on purpose, but he'd played it off as an accident. Somehow he doubts that Stiles had been surprised.

"All right, out, let me lock up," Peter says, and pretends to ignore the grin that Stiles shoots him before Stiles rushes out. 

Peter gets out as well, closing the door behind him, and locks his car with nary a thought. He wanders up to the outer doors of the apartment and punches in the code (that Stiles knows now, though Peter had never told him) and in seconds, they're both inside. Stiles rushes in like the veritable whirlwind of teenage energy that he is and Peter meanders after him, casual.

When he gets there he unlocks the door to his apartment and then gestures for Stiles to slip inside. 

Stiles does. Peter's apartment is nicer than Stiles' Dad's place and Derek's loft (but c'mon, have you seen the loft, it's not hard to beat _that_ ). The first time Stiles had visited, he'd spent a lot of time checking out the variety of artsy-fartsy decor pieces, plants, sculptures and little trinkets that Peter had collected. By now, none of the interior really grabs Stiles' attention - at least not like the large skylight does in the living room.

Peter stops by the door to slip off his leather jacket and hang it up on the coat rack, but he's long since given up on getting Stiles to lose the hoodie.

Stiles takes his shoes off because he's learned that Peter will literally carry him back to the front door if he doesn't. He'd done it once and it hadn't been enjoyable in the least. It's easier to just take 'em off now. 

Just to mess with Peter's anal-retentive preferences, he purposely doesn't line up his sneakers. Hah!

"Drinks? If it's beer, you're over twenty-one while you're under my roof," Peter comments.

This little jab has Stiles snorting as he strolls into the spacious apartment.

"You know I'm not twenty-one," Stiles points out. "And I've drank before anyway, but no, you needn't fetch me a glass of water." Peter uses words like 'needn't and 'fetch' and Stiles every so often likes to be a pretentious douchebag too. "I shall be fine without you employing your good manners on me!"

Peter rolls his eyes and slips his own shoes off, then wanders over to grab a beer from the fridge anyway, muttering, "not that they've had much of an impact." 

He doesn't intend for Stiles to hear it.

Stiles - having not heard the comment - promptly heads to his favorite spot - the rug on the living room floor - and gets down to his knees and then lays back, settling with a comfortable sigh… that doesn't stay comfortable because, _shit_ , he'd forgotten to turn off the light. Night gazing is way less spectacular with the light on.

"Hey, Peter, can you turn off the light?"

"You know," Peter drawls, twisting the cap off of his beer, "my manners do not immediately make me your _butler_."

Still, he does turn back around. It's not like he needs the lights on anyway; Peter can see in the dark, and this will save on his electric bill in the long run. 

He reaches out, flicking the light off, and the room is immediately cast into a comforting darkness. There's enough light to see by via the skylight, but not enough that Peter would ever trust Stiles walking unbidden through the room. With Stiles' grace and poise, he'd just wind up bludgeoning himself on the bookshelf and _Peter_ would be the one to take the blame.

Peter takes a sip of his beer as he walks over to Stiles, pointedly stepping over him (though he _is_ tempted to step on him, just a little). He nudges Stiles' shoulder with the toe of his socks as he sits on the couch anyway, because a little payback is a man's right. 

"You know, I sometimes wonder if I should be worried over how much you seem to enjoy that thing. Let me know if I should stage an intervention."

Stiles shoots Peter a little look. It's just a skylight. A window that lets Stiles see into the sky. Does Stiles know why he likes gazing up through the skylight? No, not exactly, but it's calming here at Peter's apartment and even _with_ Peter himself. Even amidst the banter and snark flying between them at times, it never gets overly stressful. Peter actually isn't that bad - a little insufferable at times, but Stiles has been called that too.

"Screw your intervention," Stiles mutters as he stretches out. "I like it because it's nice. You should be grateful that at least _someone_ is enjoying it." With that said, he reaches a hand up and promptly pokes at Peter's foot with a finger. "You could join me, you know."

The invitation is out and Stiles immediately stills, his hand frozen before he jerks it back to rest beside him. He's never asked or invited Peter to join him before. Peter's always been on the couch or in his room doing god knows what. The idea of Peter _next_ to him on the floor is practically scandalous, so Stiles is fairly certain Peter is going to flat-out reject it. 

Which isn't so far from the truth. Peter, not at all privy to Stiles' internal panic save for the interesting tick to Stiles' pulse as he jerks his hand back, just looks down at him with an eyebrow raised. Stiles' eyes are practically as wide as dinner plates, which makes sense. Peter's reasonably sure that if anyone else had told him to get down on the floor, he'd have spitefully clawed their throat out.

He considers it anyway, but decides against it. Stiles looks like he's panicking enough as is.

"Why in the world would I do that?" He asks instead, lifting one leg to cross over the other. Stiles poking him will be more difficult this way. "I can see the skylight just fine from here. I can see _everything_ fine from here. Werewolf," Peter adds, letting his eyes glow blue to enunciate his point.

Stiles only just manages to avoid wincing. It's a no. Of course it's a no, but there's also a question directed back at him and he isn't entirely prepared with an answer. The glow of Peter's icy blue eyes stands out in the dark, but Stiles refuses to tip his head further back to get a look because he doesn't necessarily _want_ to make eye contact right now. 

"Congratulations, Mr. Werewolf," Stiles finally mutters back. "Just nevermind. Pretend I didn't say it." 

Will backtracking work here? It's about a 50-50 with Peter, depending on how vindictive Peter is feeling in any given moment. 

Stiles takes a deep breath and tries to focus on the clear sky above him, on the stars breaking up the inkiness because he's always found some measure of peace in the sky, in its possibilities and vastness. 

Unfortunately for Stiles, Peter's not feeling particularly charitable. He'd been on his best behavior all evening; at least this has the potential to be entertaining. Stiles doesn't look pleased, which only intrigues Peter more. 

Stiles _wants_ him to lay down on the floor. How is he supposed ignore that?

Peter takes another sip of his beer, thoughtful. Then, pinching the neck between his fingers, he reaches over and sets it down on his side-table with a pointed _clunk_. Any emphasis seems to get Stiles' attention when he's trying to deflect.

"But you _did_ say it. Quite emphatically, might I add. And now you're embarrassed. So… you can keep trying to pretend that you're not, or you could cut to the chase and explain. I'll get it out of you eventually; I always do."

The last line Peter says isn't easy for Stiles to hear. His lips thin in displeasure. It doesn't happen all that often, but if Stiles is feeling particularly bothered about something and he attempts to pretend otherwise, Peter usually makes it his business to try and figure it out - like it's some damn game. 

But no, that's not right. While it may amuse or even entertain Peter to play detective and maybe even pseudo therapist, Peter has never been cruel to him. Peter is short with him, but practical in the advice he gives or the questions he asks. The idea of Peter helping him in any way is kind of an uncomfortable thought, however, so Stiles tries hard to only come over when he's feeling more or less normal. 

He'd thought he'd been feeling normal, but something in him had apparently wanted to revolt. Stiles' mouth fidgets, lips moving to the left and then to the right before puckering in thought. If he doesn't give an answer, Peter will definitely keep prompting him.

"What's there to explain?" Stiles finally grits out, his arms coming to fold over his chest, looking ever the picture of defiant. "I guess a stupid part of me wanted you down here and I obviously have _no_ idea why because you're such an asshole."

Stiles' petulance is enough to make Peter snort, but the slight tug at the corner of his lips says more than enough. Stiles' sulkiness isn't a secret, but there's always something at the root of it. This will be no exception.

Stiles could get up and leave. It's not an outrageously far walk back to his Jeep. The walking could help him blow off some steam anyway. It's an option. He could also text Lydia to pick him up. Point is, he has escape options and he should take one of them. 

But he doesn't. He stays laying down on Peter's stupidly soft rug and looking up at the night sky through the ridiculous skylight. Like seriously, who even gets skylights? Douchebags, that's who. Why does Peter have one? Why hasn't Stiles inquired about this? Did the apartment come furnished with it or did Peter actually contract someone to put it up? These questions are much easier to think on.

"Obviously," Peter cuts in to Stiles' thoughts, amused. He uncrosses his legs again just so that he can reach out and nudge Stiles' elbow with his foot. It's just enough to jostle him, which had been Peter's intention. "But you still wanted to come over, so clearly I'm not _that_ much of an asshole. Or you're a poor judge of character." 

With Scott as a best friend, Peter's not ruling that out.

"You know," Peter goes on, " _typically_ when people want something from someone, they _ask_. You might consider giving that a try. Who knows? I might be in a good mood."

Peter's voice, smarmy and clearly entertained, cuts through the barrage of Stiles' internal questions (or distractions). 

_Asking_. Peter suggests asking. Stiles hadn't asked before. Does he want to ask _now_?

Stiles does because if Peter says no it'll just prove his point that Peter's an asshole. "Okay, fine, Peter, _will_ you come lay down next to me?"

For a moment, Peter doesn't respond. Stiles is left laying there, waiting, and Peter quietly revels in the anticipation. He never claimed that he _wasn't_ an asshole, after all, but in this one instance, his curiosity far outweighs his sarcasm. 

He lets Stiles squirm for a few seconds, taking in the faint pinch to his brow. Then he makes his decision. It's not like this is anything particularly scandalous, and even if it had been, Peter wouldn't have cared. 

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Peter judges the space on the rug and then stands up. He walks over to Stiles, makes sure not to step on him in the process, and then smoothly lowers himself down onto one knee before he reaches back and eases himself down onto his back.

The rug is plush and comfortable under him and it smells faintly of the non-chemical cleaner he'd used earlier that week, but Peter is much more interested in the sudden shock that registers in Stiles' eyes as Peter turns his head to look at him. Peter lifts an eyebrow, making sure that Stiles can _see_ it in the moonlight. 

"See? It's amazing what manners will get you sometimes."

As soon as Peter settles down beside him, Stiles' head is turning to look at him, obviously surprised that this is happening. Yeah, Peter lives for being extra and shaking things up, but Stiles honestly hadn't expected him to go through with this and now that Peter _is_ laying down next to him, Stiles finds himself speechless. 

So, he scowls, his head turning back and his eyes once again focusing on the night sky above them. Stiles uncrosses his arms, resting them once more beside him. He's aware of the space between them - only about a foot and this close, he can feel heat radiating from Peter's body. Stiles shouldn't be thinking about the space - or lack thereof - but it persists. 

"It's... different looking up this way," Stiles says after maybe a minute (it _feels_ longer than that but he's pretty sure it's just his nerves). "Sure I could see it just fine standing or on the couch, but a change in perspective keeps things more interesting."

A change in perspective… interesting. Not revolutionizing, but still interesting that Stiles had picked that word. Peter looks from Stiles, up at the skylight instead, squinting his eyes against the brightness of the moon.

The stars are glittering brightly, but Peter's eyes are sensitive enough to the moon's light that it makes focusing on them a little more difficult at night. Stiles seems to like them, however. One glance shows Stiles' eyes flicking from one side of the sky to the other, chasing one star after the other, and he supposes that he can see the draw. 

He still maintains that it's nothing that Stiles couldn't see laying down on his bed at his _own_ house, but Peter's apartment sometimes feels oddly quiet without Stiles filling the silence with inane talk.

Oddly, this doesn't feel inane. Amusing, interesting, and curious, yes. Not inane.

Peter stretches out slightly, settling back against the rug. He tucks one arm in behind his head, and when he speaks, his voice is calmer, casual. He _does_ know when to keep sarcasm at bay, after all.

"I suppose that's what you're known for. Your infamous changes in perspective. _Chase_ the monster. Go _into_ danger. _Talk_ to the hunters. _Ask_ to go to the monster's house..." Peter muses, searching out the north star. "You always have gone against the grain."

"We wouldn't be here if I hadn't had a change of perspective," Stiles says quietly, factually. "And you're not a monster. At least not anymore." 

Suddenly it feels like Stiles has gone a step too far, a step into something too serious, so he hastily adds on: "Other than a monster asshole at times, but hey, you gotta own what you're good at. I approve." 

Suddenly the north star isn't as interesting. Peter turns his head, looking over at Stiles as he speaks, and while there's no complicated twist of emotion in his eyes, he does stare for a moment too long. Derek wouldn't notice; no one else in the pack would. Stiles? Stiles might.

It's a slightly sobering thought. Peter doesn't reply immediately, just lets the resulting silence rest for a beat too long. It's not entirely intentional.

Thankfully for Peter, Stiles remains resolute in his star-gazing. He can feel Peter looking at him, but he's had Peter look at him before. It's nothing new or amazing (is what Stiles is trying to tell himself).

"Seems like a bit of a downgrade," is what Peter finally settles on, but it rings hollow even in Peter's ears. He's not used to feeling thrown, especially not by _Stiles_. Maybe that's why he stares for a little too long. "Though I suppose I'm not surprised that you approve. You _have_ been more open-minded than the rest of the pack."

The joke doesn't seem like much of a joke, but Stiles knows how that goes. He's also a user of the 'employ humor to kill awkward moment' method. But what's interesting is that Peter doesn't leave it at that. Peter could have. Peter has in the past. They both have had the last word (or laugh) in the past, the conversation fizzling out after, but now isn't one of those times. 

"Well being that I'm outnumbered by supernatural creatures, I've got to have an edge in something," Stiles says and it's kinda a joke, but kinda still true. 

Stiles' hand moves of its own accord, patting the rug between them before it finds Peter's hand. 

And Stiles clasps Peter's hand, not weakly, not softly like this is some tender precious moment. Despite Stiles' pulse skyrocketing and his heart thudding crazily in his chest, he doesn't pull his hand away. It feels right. He's going to take a chance.

Peter isn't expecting the touch to his hand. Stiles' pulse catches his attention before the brush of fingers over his skin, and Peter doesn't even realize that it's intentional until Stiles _doesn't_ pull away. 

Any other time and Peter might have just pulled away himself, or pretended to ignore it. He doesn't do that this time, shocked enough that he winds up looking down between them at the way that Stiles' hand firmly clasps his own. There's no mistaking the intent, and while there _is_ a part of Peter that feels nothing but incredulous, the rest of him… doesn't.

He doesn't pull away. He could; they both know that he could, but he doesn't. Stiles had taken a chance - he's done nothing _but_ take chances ever since the day he'd all but sat himself on the hood of Peter's car and refused to leave until Peter had driven him back home. 

Peter doesn't say anything; nothing comes to mind that isn't dismissive or sarcastic, and somehow it doesn't feel right to interject with either right now. Instead of talking, instead of overthinking, Peter just… looks back up at the skylight, expression blank.

But he does give Stiles' hand a small squeeze. It's faint, but it's something. It feels important - like the beginning of something.


End file.
